


a crime is terribly revealing

by IWhiteCrossI



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I really don't wanna give anything away but i gotta say: there is not too much fluff here, I will add more tags later when this story is complete, Infidelity, Unresolved Sexual Tension, World War II, atonement au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-09-27 07:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IWhiteCrossI/pseuds/IWhiteCrossI
Summary: UPDATED!!! (03. FEBRUARY 2019)“Oh, Forsythe, I do apologise,” Mary says and she does look the part. “I know I ought to have consulted you…”Jughead sighs, running a hand over his face.“What’s done is done.”“Will you please be nice to her, that’s all I ask.”“I will try my very best,” he mumbles, still distraught. “But only for your sake, dear Auntie. I cannot ever forget how much you helped me after my father’s death.”Jughead pauses, bracing himself for the worst.“When is she arriving?”“Oh, Veronica arrived yesterday morning. I believe she is currently in the parlour with the others.”





	a crime is terribly revealing

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is a Jeronica Secret Santa gift for @veronicassadboi on Tumblr. Originally this was supposed to be a long one-shot of about 6000 words but since I spectacularly went over the word limit and overestimated how much free time I'd have, it is unfortunately not finished yet. So, all the good stuff like the angst you asked for will be in the final instalment that I intend to post shortly before NYE. 
> 
> However, I did want to give you a little snippet of what the fic would be like. Even more so because the gifts were supposed to be finished on the 25th. So, I will delete this and post it again in a week. That being said, I hope you enjoy this little "chapter" and Merry Christmas!! 
> 
> ___  
> UPDATED! Okay so it's finished now and I don't know what to add except I didn't expect this to be 16000 words!) 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> PS: This is a Jeronica Atonement AU but it mostly follows the atmosphere of the film, not the plot. Also, Jughead is called Forsythe a lot in this AU, however, he still prefers his nickname Jughead. Oh, and both of Jughead's parents are dead but Penelope Blossom and Mary Andrews are rich widows and FP's sisters in this. Basically, he is the sole heir of some fortune or other but they look over some of his estates by his request.  
> I do apologise for any historical inaccuracies, I feel that I did get some things wrong, especially the way the characters speak sometimes but I tried my best!

 

 

_It was a marvellous night, the sort of night one only experiences when one is young. The sky was so bright, and there were so many stars that, gazing upward, one couldn’t help wondering how so many whimsical, wicked people could live under such a sky._

\- Fyodor Dostoevsky

 

 

 

_December 1933_

_Chicago_

 

 

Josie and Veronica are lying there, in her husband’s bed, engulfed in darkness. The chill of the night air is biting the tips of their noses but under the duvets, their naked bodies are warm. 

“Josie?” Veronica mutters. She plants a small kiss on the wing of Josie’s collarbone, her words getting half-lost in the skin. 

“Yes, sweetheart?” 

“Please tell me that Chuck is working late again.” 

Josie furrows a brow and her mouth drops down in a better curve. 

“Ronnie,” she sighs, a murmured apology in her voice. “You know, he seldom gets back after 7.30. Gotta have his supper here, he says.” 

Veronica pouts. 

“Yes, I know,” she says, closing her eyes. “But sometimes I… I forget.” 

“Forget about what?” 

She drapes her hands more heavily around Josie’s body before speaking into her shoulder once more: 

“About your marriage. About how… how we have to hide who we are…about everything. I wish…” 

To Veronica’s surprise, Josie lets out a long, glittering laugh. It bounces off the walls with its bitter joviality, but she doesn’t stop. 

“Pardon?” Veronica whispers. 

“Sweetheart,” Josie says and her cheerfulness has disappeared. “We would not be free even if it was all well and good to be a dyke and I wasn’t tied down to good ol’ Chuck here. You, my sweet, at least get to go ‘round and pretend to be white, well…” She gestures at her own body, her dark skin glimmering prettily in the shadowy light of the room. 

“I couldn’t do that if I damn well tried.” 

Veronica has tears in her eyes now and she cups Josie’s face in her hands, holding onto the other woman for dear life. 

“Darling, I am sorry,” she murmurs. “I know this is all so terribly distressing to think about, I did not wish to…” 

“It’s alright,” Josie replies, matter-of-fact. “Lord knows, maybe someday things will change. As for now…” 

Her gaze drifts to the ginormous grandfather’s clock on the wall opposite the bed, it is just shy of six o’clock. 

“As for now…” she repeats, leaning down to kiss her lover. “I want to spend every precious moment that we have here in my bed.” 

“Oh, yes please,” Veronica whimpers underneath her, as Josie’s naked body covers her own and the other woman begins to kiss down her ribcage. “I like that very much.” 

 

 

 

_Summer 1937_

_Kensington, London_

 

 

 

Jughead is sitting on the pale blue sofa in Betty’s living room, puffing a cigarette and watching her betrothed shove the entire contents of her wardrobe into one tiny, vinyl suitcase. 

“Betty, what are you doing?” he asks for the hundredth time. “We are merely heading there for the weekend.” 

“Oh, hush,” Betty grunts while forcing the suitcase shut. “This is the first time I am meeting your family, I ought to be well prepared.” 

Her fiancée snorts inelegantly. 

“What are you on about? You’ve seen them all before. Auntie Blossom and Lady Andrews and my sister…”  

“But not as your soon-to-be wife!” 

She has little blotches of red on her cheeks from agitation and Jughead decides it’s better to keep any other smart remarks to himself. Even though, a slight flinch goes through him when Betty mentions marriage. 

“Be that as it may,” he says quickly. “I am sure they will love you. Even my tedious aunt will be forced to say that you’re perfectly acceptable.” 

He is taken aback by his own vaguely mean demeanour but Betty does not seem to have noticed. 

“Jug!” she scolds him, but the corners of her mouth are twitching upwards. 

“Oh, don’t be modest,” Jughead carries on. “You have everything that an eligible bachelor such as myself might wish for: beauty, wit… family connections…”

“You are incorrigible.” 

“No. Just glad that your parents have decided to stay in London this time. The way I see it, the less people there, the better.”

Betty laughs uncertainly. 

 

 

 

 

_That very same afternoon_

_Haynes Park, Bedfordshire_

 

 

It is a terribly hot summer’s day and the four of them are stifling in Jughead’s Bentley as they drive up to the countryside. Yes, besides Jughead, Betty and the driver, Betty’s brother, Charles rides along in the backseat of the car as a chaperone something that Betty’s mother, Alice had insisted on the morning before. 

In two hours, they finally pull up to the Blossom’s driveway and Jughead hops out of the car, his shirt sticking to his back.

He slopes towards the house but is tackled on the way by his sister. 

“Jughead!” she yells excitedly, engulfing him in a bear hug, her dark hair coming loose from her perfect up-do. “My goodness, how have you been?” 

“Jellybean! It’s nice to see you,” he laughs, patting her on the head and messing up her wild hair even more, as if she was a twelve-year old girl and not a twenty-two year old woman. 

They hear a subtle, delicate cough behind them and turn around at the same time, coming face to face with a rather displeased Penelope Blossom. 

“Hildred, Forsythe,” she greets them. “Would you so kindly contain your excitement in front of our guests, please?” 

“Aunt Penelope,” Jughead says, his smile diminishing a bit. “How do you do?” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

After the introductions have been made, Jellybean, Betty and Charles head back to the house for some refreshments, engaged in cheerful chatter. Penelope follows in tow, watching them like a hawk. Suddenly, his second aunt, Lady Mary Andrews appears out of the blue and leads Jughead away from the crowd by the elbow before he has time to react. 

“Is this about tonight’s engagement party?” Jughead asks, remaining in the foyer. “Does Penelope not know yet?” 

“Not exactly.” 

There are deep worry lines on his aunt’s forehead and for the first time, Jughead realises just how worn out she looks for her forty-something years. 

“About a month ago, I received a letter from an old family acquaintance, Hermione Lodge.” 

Jughead’s mouth opens in incredulity. 

“The wife of Hiram Lodge? That old washed-up newspaper tycoon my dad once borrowed money from? 

“Yes.” 

“Isn’t that family bankrupt by now?” 

“They are,” Penelope nods, her expression grave. “However, Hermione and I used to be good friends during school before she married that… that foreigner, so I… thought it my duty to help her in her time of need.” 

Jughead furrows his brows. 

“Help her how, dear auntie?” 

“By taking her daughter under our protection for a little while.” 

“ _Pardon?_ ” 

“Mind you, I was hesitant,” Mary trails on, paying Jughead no mind. “Of course, Penelope was thoroughly against it… that girl… She has acquired quite the reputation over the years…” 

“You are not…” Jughead pauses, inhaling sharply. “I hope you are not suggesting that some… some ill-mannered, fallen woman stay under our roof?” 

“Oh, Forsythe, I do apologise,” Mary says and she does look the part. “I know I ought to have consulted you…” 

Jughead sighs, running a hand over his face. 

“What’s done is done.” 

“Will you please be nice to her, that’s all I ask.” 

“I will try my best,” he mumbles, still distraught. “But only for your sake, dear Auntie. I cannot ever forget how much you helped me after my father’s death.” 

Jughead pauses, bracing himself for the worst. 

“When is she arriving?” 

“Oh, Veronica arrived yesterday morning. I believe she is currently in the parlour with the others.” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

He hears her before he sees her. 

“… naturally, I told the concierge that I was an American after that little incident, to save me the embarrassment,” a flamboyant but slightly biting voice echoes from the parlour. “I tell you, boys and girls, the ability to mimic a convincing accent sure comes in handy sometimes!” 

“That was so delinquent of you, Ronnie!” Jellybean gasps, but her voice is full of admiration. 

“Nonsense, dear Jellybean, it was nothing.” 

Jughead quickens his pace and bursts through the door. 

And there, lounging in the middle of a lush, deep red velvet sofa, a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in other, sits the new intruder in all her mesmerising glory. As if she belongs there. 

It is such a cliché, really, but Jughead loses his breathing for a moment before his face colours in anger. 

The brunette’s cool gaze turns to him in a flash, seizing him up and down before she stands, the fabric of her sequin dress rustling against her knees. He makes an effort to keep himself in check even though his hands are shaking. 

She is the first to speak. 

“Good afternoon,” Veronica says, stepping forward and extending a gloved hand. “I am Veronica Lodge, the new resident. How do you do?” 

“Forsythe Pendleton III, how do you do?” he repeats mechanically before gripping her fingers in his. Her hands are cold. 

“Forsythe Pendleton III… So you are the owner of this estate, then?” she asks, a small wicked smile playing on her lips. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.” 

Jughead gives her a mean smile. 

“Yes. And I was labouring under the misapprehension that I was going to be in the company consisting simply of my close friends and family this weekend, Miss Lodge.” 

Veronica’s smile freezes but she doesn’t blush. Instead, she turns to Jellybean, forcing on a bright smile. 

“I see that your brother is not in possession of the signature Pendleton family charm,” she quips, winking at Jughead’s sister. “An exception in the family, I am sure.” 

Jellybean snorts and Jughead looks at her, aghast. 

“Oh, don’t be cross with Ronnie, dear brother,” Jellybean says, smiling up at him. “I assure you, she is like a breath of fresh air in this drab house.” 

Jughead turns around, reaching for the crystal cocktail tumblers on the cupboard, ignoring her sister, Veronica and the rest of the guests. He pours himself a generous splash of whiskey while muttering to himself: 

“Yes, I’m sure, she is.” 

 

 

 

_The engagement dinner_

 

 

Betty is cross with him, he’s sure of it. And he can’t really blame her if he’s being critical about it. 

The two of them had been in the east wing library earlier, discussing their approaching engagement reveal in hushed tones when Veronica glided into the library, her heels clacking on the marble floor. Jughead had immediately noticed the book tucked under her elbow. 

“ _Brave New World_?” he’d called out, unable to stop himself. “A bit outdated for 1937, wouldn’t you say?” 

Veronica had simply glared ahead, squeezing the book to her chest and retreating to the far corner of the library with a dignified air, seemingly oblivious to him.  

Jughead had thought nothing of the moment but he could sense Betty’s quiet resentment beside him, especially when his gaze kept shifting towards the corner. To Veronica’s credit, she did not look up once, thoroughly immersed in Huxley’s utopian vision.

He didn’t understand Betty’s indignation, but it has persisted throughout the day. And now they are both here, sat at the dinner table, waiting for Penelope’s signal to announce their engagement to the world. 

He glances at Betty from the corner of his eye. She looks so perfect and innocent in her shell-pink dress, the pearls covering her soft curls. And he is so happy to be here with her, to share this invaluable moment together. He is, _he is_. 

Jughead scowls at Veronica, her throaty laugh interrupting his thought process. Unlike Betty, she is dressed in midnight blue satin, entirely inappropriate for the hot summer evening. Although, it would be foolish to assume that Veronica Lodge would know or care about following decorum. 

Her ostentatious smirk haunts him as Jughead watches her lean into Archie and Nicholas St. Clair, both seated on her right. She whispers something in Nick’s ear and Jughead stares down at his plate in disgust. 

“So, Veronica,” Betty suddenly addresses the other woman, “how are you finding the countryside thus far?” 

Jughead looks up in astonishment. Veronica seems to be a little shaken too, but she recovers speedily. 

“I am finding it rather wonderful, thank you,” she replies. “Certainly a lovely change from New York, much more peaceful.” 

“New York? Is that where you resided before returning to England?” 

Veronica’s smile tightens. 

“New York, Chicago, Boston… I’ve been around,” she says airily. 

“Yes, we’ve all kept up with your family in the papers, darling,” Penelope Blossom remarks icily and Veronica’s mouth falls shut, her hands gripping the table’s edge. 

“Aunt Penny,” Jughead cuts in, surprising himself. “Let’s not embarrass our guests unnecessarily.” 

Veronica’s eyes land on Jughead and a dark shadow crosses over her face. 

“I do not need your patronage, Mr. Pendleton.” 

“Odd, I was not aware I was offering it.” 

“You really don’t seem to take my presence here very well, do you?” Veronica hisses. 

“I…” 

The whole table grows so still they can hear the crickets chirping outside. Jughead’s eyes don’t leave Veronica’s. She bites her lip, the realisation of overstepping a boundary dawning on her like a heavy weight. And yet, Jughead sees past her sorrowful facade, instinct telling him that she doesn’t really care for this charade of cordiality. It unnerves him. 

Lady Mary Andrews is the first one to recover from this shocking breech of etiquette. 

“Children,” she scolds them, unable to mask the disquiet in her voice. “Please be nice to each other. One does not want to needlessly squabble amongst one’s family.” 

“I do apologise, Lady Mary,” Veronica says quickly. “You see, it has been such a boiling hot day and I’ve had this blistering headache since noon… I suppose it has made me act rather foolish.” 

She turns to Jughead, eyes blazing. 

“I truly am sorry, sir.” 

He nods curtly, _disbelievingly_ even while adjusting the glasses on his nose. 

“I am sorry as well, Miss Lodge.” 

They resume their dinner but Jughead’s eyes keep darting towards Veronica’s direction. He doesn’t believe for a second that her apology is little more than a fable to appease aunt Mary. 

He thinks Veronica must notice how his eyes stray in her direction because eventually, she turns towards Lady Andrews again. 

“Lady Mary?” she asks. “I really am feeling awful. Is it alright if I head upstairs for the remainder of the evening?” 

“Of course, dea — ” his aunt starts to say before Penelope interrupts her sister with a cough, the old toad’s scrutinising gaze falling on Jughead, who catches on in an instant. Veronica, who is already half out of her chair, hastily sits back down. 

“I am afraid that is impossible right now as our dear Forsythe has an important announcement to make,” Penelope says sternly. “You can leave in a minute, Veronica.”

“I…yes, indeed,” he agrees, glancing at Betty for the first time in a long while. She is staring back at him with a chaste smile on her face. Jughead inhales, bracing himself before he stands up, clasping her hand in his.

“Dear friends and family,” he begins. “I am delighted that you have gathered here today to join us in Haynes Park on this splendid summer evening. However, as some of you may have already suspected, there was a hidden reason behind inviting all of you here today.” 

He loses his train of thought for a moment before continuing: 

“Among other things… I have chosen this occasion to tell you how happy I am to announce that the lovely miss Elizabeth Cooper and I are to be married on November 18th, four months from now.” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

The party guests go wild after the announcement and Betty seems happier than she’s looked in days. Jughead quietly accepts all the congratulations, all the while feeling Veronica’s smirking eyes on him from the other side of the table. 

He pulls a cigarette case from his suit jacket pocket and excuses himself, heading for the upstairs balcony to finally enjoy some peace and quiet. Humming to himself, he encounters Veronica on the upstairs stairwell. 

“Congratulations on your engagement, Forsythe,” she murmurs while passing him. “She really is an adorable sanctimonious little lamb.” 

“Pardon?” 

He turns around on the spot but Veronica is already far along the hallway, the faint smell of gardenias and sangria lingering in her wake. 

 

 

 

_But no artist, I now realise, can be satisfied with art alone._

_\-   Agatha Christie_

 

 

 

_That Saturday_

_The cocktail hour_

 

 

 

Jughead does not get much sleep after the engagement dinner. Yes, his mood had marginally improved after he had pushed Betty against her bedroom door and kissed her good-bye in secret, murmuring the phrase ‘you’re mine you’re mine, you’re mine’ all over again against her ear. 

But then, Jughead had gotten back to his room and heard that devious laugh again. She had pictured a face, a figure much different from Betty’s, and these dark eyes, smiling at him as they declared Betty an adorable sanctimonious little lamb. 

He had huffed, throwing the heavy satin pillow over his head. As if that Veronica Lodge, that… that Jezebel, knew anything. 

Jughead can’t stop scowling at her, though. It is a scalding hot summer afternoon, just like yesterday, and the lot of them are outside: Archie, Jellybean, Nick, Betty, her sister Polly and… Veronica. Only Betty’s brother is missing and knowing Charles, he is probably hunting down some fish by the village lake or chopping up wood for the ‘upcoming’ winter. Meanwhile, they are all basking in the sun and drinking something called The Mary Pickford, a hideous American drink, which Veronica had insisted is ‘almost God’s creation’. Jughead barely tastes the one she’d made him. 

Veronica herself is sitting in the sun without a care in the world and leafing through an old photo album. A glass of water is perched on the round table, dangerously close to her elbow. 

“Archibald!” she suddenly gasps. “I didn’t know that you were in the Cambridge rowing team! ”

“For four years, in fact,” Archie clarifies. “They tried to get Jug to enlist as well, but he wouldn’t budge.” 

Veronica throws Jughead a mischievous little look while her eyes glide over Archie’s upper body appreciatively. 

“Well, it certainly shows when a man’s been doing their exercise.” 

Both Archie and Jughead flush scarlet, although Jughead’s blush has more to do with anger. Jellybean giggles into her glass of Mary Pickford. 

“Let me see the photos,” Nick St Clair laughs, stalking closer and breaking the  slight discomfiture of the moment. “I was quite the looker myself during my Cambridge days.” 

“Undoubtedly so,” Veronica smirks and Jellybean titters along with her once more. 

Jughead absent-mindedly thinks that her little sister ought to drink less before her gaze returns to Veronica again. Nick and Archie are staring at her, mesmerised, eating out of Veronica’s palm as if she was feeding them pearls and diamonds instead of some airy compliments. If his friends could only see how she’s toying with them. Them, auntie Andrews, this estate: all of these things are her prey. 

He comes out of his thoughts when Betty nudges his shoulder. Her lips are pursed. 

“Mhh?” 

“Juggie,” she whispers in his ear, her chin subtly inclining towards Veronica. “Do you feel it as well? As if she’s sort of… performing for us?” 

Jughead bites his tongue, giving her a curt nod. He agrees with Betty, but somehow, he does not like it as much when she utters these words. 

 

 

 

 

_On an unexpected Monday in July_

_Still in Bedfordshire_

 

 

Apparently, Lady Alice Cooper throws a ruckus when she sees Forsythe Pendleton III and Elizabeth Agatha Cooper’s engagement notice in the Monday papers. Not three hours later, Betty receives an urgent telegram from the city, delivered to the dining hall of the Haynes Park mansion and consisting solely of five words: 

_t h i n k   a b o u t   y o u r   f a m i l y.  M o t h e r._

Jughead is more than baffled since his impending engagement with the youngest Cooper has been widely regarded as a match made between the aristocrat and financial heavens. Betty reassures him. 

“It’s just mother being mother. I am her youngest, she’s merely worried about me.” 

“This telegram does not announce _worried_ , Beth,” Jughead cuts in. “To me, it reads more as if she’s planning on coming down to Haynes Park herself and separating us.” 

“I am sure that’s not true!” Betty lays her cheek against Jughead’s shoulder. “But… let’s stay here awhile, darling? Instead of going back to London?” 

Jughead’s faraway gaze lands on Veronica, dancing around the hall and arranging orchids and lilies into neat little bouquets to put them in the sumptuous ornamental vases. She is humming Sophie Tucker’s _Some of These Days_ under her breath. In spite of his better instincts, Jughead finds himself smiling. 

“As you wish, my dearest.” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

Evidently, Veronica is not leaving his thoughts. Her little comments are threaded into his mind like an intricate spider-web and Jughead is unable to concentrate on much anything. 

He is coming back from the village with several letters from the various family business associates tucked under his arm when he catches her walking by the vast poppy fields near the village. Jughead halts, standing still for a moment, the contrast of her black silk dress (entirely inappropriate for the summer’s heatwave, as usual) and the crimson red of the field behind her, all of it seems sort of fatal to him. He is so lost in thought that Veronica has to approach him herself.

“Forsythe,” she calls out, stepping closer. “Were you following me by any chance?” 

“I… _No,_ ” he catches his breath, then blurts out: “Did you have anything specific in mind when you called my fiancée a sanctimonious little lamb?” 

Veronica’s lips curl into a smirk. He notes with surprise that there are several red flowers dangling from her hair. 

“I meant exactly what I said.” 

“Which is?” 

“That she is an adorable _sanctimonious_ little lamb.” 

“How charming. Could you enlighten me about the precise intent behind your…?” 

A look of annoyance ghosts over Veronica’s face. 

“Forgive me if I’ve failed to understand but… is this why you’ve behaved so strangely around me these past few days? Because you are worried about your precious little fia — ?” 

“His precious little what?” a soft-spoken voice cuts in and Jughead and Veronica step away from each other in fright, as if stung. Betty Cooper is standing a few yards away from them, a clear look of contempt and shock in her face. 

“Betty,” Jughead breathes. “We were just…” 

“Oh, I am not worried about you, Juggie,” Betty says. She turns more fully towards Veronica. 

“It is her I’m concerned about.” 

“Oh, I do apologise, Elizabeth,” Veronica says airily. “As it is, I did happen to make a few comments about your… general manner of being earlier. In actuality, they were really nothing harmful.” 

Betty’s face clouds over in rage, which she tries her hardest to conceal. 

“I… Thank you, Veronica. I accept your apology. But I am afraid Jug… Forsythe and I have some private matters to discuss.” 

She pauses, her tone turning surprisingly sinister. 

“Would you be so kind…?” 

“Sure thing, miss Cooper.” 

Veronica turns around like quicksand and marches off to the other side of the field. There is a tinge of something mirthful yet defiant in the look she gives Jughead as she passes by them. 

 

 

 

_The library_

 

 

They are left alone in the setting summer dusk, swarms of flies buzzing all around them, but to Jughead’s surprise, he doesn’t have to reassure Betty of anything. She simply doesn’t ask, even though the blonde is more quiet than usual on their way back to the manor. 

Fortunately, supper comes around soon enough and Jughead manages to warm her up towards him. So much so that they end up making out behind the large oak shelf of the library just before dinnertime. 

“Mmm, Jug, you know, we can’t,” Betty gasps as he buries his fingers between her undergarments. 

“I know, I know. We can’t do _that_ ,” Jughead grins but drops to his knees regardless. “However, you should still imagine what I _can_ do. “ 

Betty lets out a muffled whimper, biting into her own hand as Jughead buries his face in her cunt. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

They enter the dining hall together from the servant’s quarter. As usual, Jughead sits across the table from Veronica and the brunette raises her gaze from her bowl of onion soup, taking in Jughead’s slightly askew tie and Betty’s tousled hair. 

A slow smirk spreads over her lips. 

“I think you forgot your copy of Chekov’s _Three Sisters_ in the library, Forsythe,” she whispers when the rest of the table is busy discussing the new art festival in Munich, which was just opened by Hitler himself. 

“I most certainly did n…” 

He freezes when something dawns on him. Jughead excuses himself for a brief momen, racing upstairs to the library. Nothing looks out of the ordinary. He hesitantly moves over towards Veronica’s preferred reading corner and there it is: his copy of _The Three Sisters_. He grabs the book and flips it open, a hand-written note falling into his palm. Jughead raises it against the window and in the last glimmers of sunlight, reads the following: 

 

 

_Dear Forsythe Pendleton III,_

_I wonder… how devout is getting carried away in the library? That is at least_ _a little_ _sanctimonious, wouldn’t you say? Additionally, I suggest you read less Chekov. This is certainly not one of his best works._

_\- Veronica._

 

Jughead crumples up the note in his palm. 

 

 

 

 

_A rainy Tuesday afternoon indoors_

_The following day_

 

 

The downpour started late last night and is showing no signs of stopping. The rain is pelting against the windows and the clouds are as black as tar. A cold breeze wafts through the open door as Veronica and Jughead sit in their usual spots, reading alone in the library (Faulkner and Steinbeck, respectively). Suddenly, the brunette stands up, putting _The Sound and the Fury_ down with a sigh. 

She is gliding towards the door and Jughead quietly rises from his chair as well, falling in line behind her. Veronica’s foot is already out in the hall when Jughead moves past her like a flash, reaching for the door and slamming it shut right in front of her nose.

Veronica lets out a tiny gasp, turning around. She flinches when her eyes dart upwards to look at his scowling face. There is a vein throbbing at his temple. 

“Are you attempting to ruin my engagement?” he barks. 

“Oh, open the door, Jughead,” Veronica says after a beat, her voice regaining its usual sultry steadiness.  “It’s not as if you are planning to lunge at me, is it?” 

“Not before you answer me,” he demands. “What the hell was that letter for?” 

“Maybe I just… wanted to draw your attention to the fact that your fiancée is not the goody-two-shoes you think she is.” 

“For goodness sake, Veronica, stop talking in riddles.”

“Fine, maybe some part of me simply wanted to humiliate the two of you.” 

Jughead’s brow furrows and he leans in closer, his hand dropping against the door. Veronica’s back grazes the cold wall and his gaze halts, assessing her face. 

“I think you’re lying.” 

Veronica huffs, dashing her hand out in an attempt to push him away. It hits against his chest but he doesn’t even squirm. 

“Well…” she says, her tone more frantic. “If you so wanted to know… that telegram from her mother she showed you the other day… she sent it to herself.” 

Jughead lets out an exasperated laugh. God, he wants to shake her.

“Stop lying, you Jezebel!” 

“I am not a Jezebel and I am certainly not lying!” Veronica yells in frustration. “Jellybean and I saw her at the post office that day! The supposed telegram her mother sent her, it came from her cousin in town! By her request!” 

His face pales. 

“Jellybean saw her as well?” 

“Yes!” 

“But then… there is no apparent reason why…” 

“Oh, I can think of a few reasons why she did it,” Veronica says darkly. 

Jughead’s gaze drifts down to her face. She looks annoyed by their close proximity but there is also something melancholy in her features, far beneath the surface. His breath fans over her face. Veronica tilts up her chin to look at him and the smell of her perfume is suddenly all around him, invading his senses.

Everything is quiet for a moment. 

“Betty… Betty thinks that we are behaving suspiciously?” he whispers in sudden realisation. “Doesn’t she?” 

Veronica rises on her tiptoes, her tiny figure pushing against his chest. Jughead shudders in defeat. 

“No,” she murmurs viciously, her lips grazing his cheek. “I think she is a hundred times more likely to be contemplating just how close you are to having an affair.” 

Jughead’s hand slides downwards on the wall to grip her shoulders and push her away but Veronica’s lips have already cascaded downwards, moving to kiss the underside of his jaw and he ends up pulling her closer by the waist. 

“She needn’t worry, though,” Veronica whispers. “Since I would never take you up on the offer.” 

She bites down at his jaw harshly, drawing blood, and Jughead yelps, jumping away from her but Veronica shoves him in the chest, and suddenly, he is the one against the door with her elbow in his face. Jughead curses and rubs at his jaw as Veronica steps away, glaring at him in mild satisfaction. 

“What in the Devil’s name possessed you?” he balks. 

“That…” Veronica says shakily, “was my little act of vengeance for all the times you’ve insulted me since my stay at the manor.” 

“And that part about Betty?” 

Veronica pauses. 

“Regardless of my other actions, everything I said about the darling Elizabeth is true,” she concedes. Veronica brushes past him, wrenching the door open and contemplating his shocked form and reddening jawline from the hallway: 

“By the by, I believe some ice might just do the trick with _that._ ” 

  

 

 

_This is the strangest life I have ever known._

_\- Jim Morrison_

 

 

 

 

_A dark summer_

_Tuesday-Thursday_

 

 

Veronica gets back to her bedroom on shaky feet, the Catholic guilt setting in slowly but surely. She rummages around in her drawers before finding what she was looking for. The brunette falls down to the bed, clutching the picture of Josie onto her chest. 

She has only been a Jezebel once, no matter what these dreadful papers might say about her. And that… that was for a reason.

Veronica has always thought that flirting with fellows like Nick or Archie was harmless. These boys all had better matches planned out for them, waiting ardently somewhere in the English countryside, they wouldn’t mind. Veronica never pursued anything concrete and was often long gone before the engagement bells even started ringing. 

However, Jughead she wasn’t so sure about. He had been right, something had possessed Veronica in the library when she’d elbowed him in the jaw. And that was dangerous. She could not afford to dwindle from the norm too much, especially around him. In spite of Veronica’s general disregard for faux civility, there was still the pesky little need to keep this roof over her head. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

The rain clears up in a few days. Jughead quickly plasters up his jaw and does not tell Betty about the telegram. Jellybean laughs about his atrocious shaving skills when she sees the bandages covering half his face but no one else says anything. Veronica mostly stays inside her bedroom, feigning illness while the others read books in the living room, take walks to the village centre and drink heavily. 

Come Thursday morning, Betty heads back to London to reassure her mother about the engagement. On a whim, Jughead decides to stay behind in Haynes Park,  and now it’s his turn, reassuring Betty that everything will be alright. 

“Oh, Jug,” she says when they’re saying their goodbyes. “I completely understand. I know everything will be just delightful when you return to London as well. But… look after yourself, promise?” 

He swears to do so and Betty’s car whirls past him and down to the station. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

That same afternoon, his sister coerces him into taking a boat-ride with her on the lake. 

“I refuse to be dragged into these idle past-times,” Jughead argues at first but Jellybean is a persistent little devil so he reluctantly lets her put together a picnic basket with lots of cheese and ham sandwiches and hunts down Jerome K. Jerome’s _Three Men in a Boat_ in the library because he appreciates the irony. 

They are on their way out of the house when Veronica glides down the wooden staircase,wearing a simple pale lilac dress and glasses. Her lips form a small O when she notices Jughead. 

“Oh,” she says. “I thought you’d be in Lo — ” 

Jughead loses his track of thought for a moment. He hasn’t seen her in two days. 

“No. Everybody else decided to return to London but Jelly and I are staying here for a fortnight.” 

“Oh, that’s…” Veronica pauses, stepping back towards the staircase. “Alright, I suppose I will see you two at — ” 

“Would you like to come rowing with us, Ronnie?” his sister interjects and Jughead and Veronica both tense. Jellybean snorts, seeing the other brunette’s uneasy reaction. 

“Not in these horrid clothes, of course! But it would be an inarguably better way of passing your time, rather than staying locked up in your room in this heat!” 

Veronica hesitates, stealing a glance at Jughead. 

“I…” 

“So you are coming with us, yes?” Jellybean cuts in. “Well, hurry up and change then!” 

“Alright… I suppose I shall,” Veronica replies. The other woman hasn’t left her with much choice. “I’ll be down in half an hour.” 

Jughead watches as she ascends back up the stairs. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

It takes Veronica almost a full hour to get ready and for the first time ever, she’s opted to wear something lighter than her usual dark ensembles. Jellybean and Veronica sit in the boat’s bow while Jughead rows them across the lake, their gowns making it look as though they’re one with the turquoise water below them and the shady virescent hues of the trees above. 

Jughead doesn’t really speak but Jellybean asks Veronica about a million questions. He catches Veronica’s eyes flicker towards his bandaged jaw a few times and blushes, pretending to not pay attention to the conversation after that. Something catches his ear a little bit later, however. 

“And after that… She… she was an art teacher and the most mesmerising person I have ever met, needless to say that in Chuck’s eyes, I did not measure up,” Veronica recounts in a quiet voice. 

“So, Josie came along and you let Chuck be?” Jellybean whispers in a scandalised tone. 

There is a far-away look in Veronica’s eyes now. 

“Not precisely.” She pauses. “He… she… Josie discovered us kissing in _his_ garden once… It was awful so I… I decided to leave them be. Within a year and a half, my father was under the investigation for corruption and unspeakable violence and… and then my mother asked me to return to England.”

“Oh, Veronica,” Jellybean murmurs, squeezing the other girl’s shoulder. “That must have been terrible… I cannot begin to fathom…” 

“What an awful thing to have happened to a person,” Jughead blurts out, unable to control himself. 

Veronica’s gaze snaps up to his, shock evident on her face. 

“I apologise,” he corrects himself, blundering on: “I could not help but overhear some parts of your conversation… and… it truly seems that you have been through… far too much.” 

Veronica’s expression softens by a fraction and she shares an amused look with his sister: 

“It seems as though your brother has gained a little sympathy for me… at last.” 

“He is hard to crack, that one, and just a bit backwards,” Jellybean jokes and Jughead shakes his head at her. But when the younger Pendleton sibling turns her head towards the lake, Veronica’s stormy gaze meets his again. She looks almost regretful as she whispers: “Apologies for almost breaking your jaw” and Jughead feels a strange affection arise in his chest. Her answering smile feels so warm it’s almost dangerous. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

They leave the little rowing boat at the lake, partially hidden in the cattails’ that line the water’s edge, and Jellybean sets off towards the house in a brisk pace, leaving Jughead and Veronica to follow suit behind her. 

He asks her about a book she’s reading. 

“It’s by Zora Neale Hurston,” she answers, clutching the book to her chest but doesn’t elaborate. 

“What is the title?” 

“It is an unpublished manuscript, a friend of mine sent it to me.” 

“You are friends with the author?” Jughead presses on. 

Veronica shakes her head, no. She steps past him quickly, flashing him a melancholy smile while muttering: 

“I will see you at dinner, Mr. Pendleton.” Her fingertips graze his hand for a brief second and Jughead would think that he imagined the moment if he hadn’t almost attempted to hold onto her hand himself. 

 

 

 

 

_The decadent idleness_

_Sunday evening, still in Haynes Park_

 

 

The week drifts idly by with the three of them still stuck in the countryside. Jellybean spends most of her time down by the village, harassing the local postman, and Veronica starts venturing out of her room more often as well, messing up the flower decorations in the manor once more. Jughead grows into the habit of watching her from the balcony while smoking his morning cigarette. He glances at her from behind his morning paper now and then as she fusses around in the garden, stepping into the nettle bushes and cursing once or twice. 

He considers stopping after Veronica makes an offhanded comment about seeing some villagers lurking behind the garden hedges at the dinner-table, a comment which seems to alarm his aunt Penelope a great deal. Jughead is chastised by the taunting lilt in Veronica’s voice and the subtle warning in her eyes, but in the end finds himself unable to mentally distance himself from her, instead retreating to the library more and more. 

He is so engrossed in his latest book today that he doesn’t immediately hear her come in. 

“ _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?_ ” she drawls, halting in front of his reading chair. “I always assumed you were above the likes of Christie and Hammett.” 

Jughead falters slightly, dropping the book in his lap and tilting his head up to look at her. 

“ _Pardon, miss Lodge?_ ” 

Veronica flashes her teeth like a fox, clearly enjoying his reaction to her. 

“I was merely wondering why you’re suddenly so invested in crime novels.” 

“Oh, the book? It was a childhood favourite of mine. You should read something of hers.” 

“Perhaps later,” Veronica muses, her hand waving vaguely in his direction before she retreats to another desk. “I’ve got my own reading to catch up to.” 

A couple of minutes pass in silence. From the corner of his eye, he can see Veronica, attempting to climb up one of the higher bookcases. A cloud of dust falls on her clothes and Jughead watches in amusement as she shakes herself, irritated. After a while, Veronica quietly makes her way over to his chair once more. 

“It seems I may require your assistance, Forsythe,” she says with a huff, looking down at him expectedly. 

“Hmm?” he murmurs, pretending not to have noticed. 

“I… Could you please be a dear and retrieve the new edition of _Anna Karenina_   for me?”

Jughead slowly gets up from his chair, making a show of putting his book on the table, arranging it just so before he smirks at her: “Well, since you asked so nicely…” 

She points him towards the right shelf and he skates towards it, Veronica following in tow. Then when he is almost in front of the bookcase, Jughead kneels down all of a sudden, the grin still plastered on his face as he drags out the small library stool from behind the shelf, stepping on it in one fluid motion. Veronica’s hands fly to her hips. 

“Why didn you not tell me there was a chair?” 

Jughead locates the book, clasping onto it and moving down from the chair. 

“It was more fun this way.” 

“Of course.” 

Veronica shakes her head and leans against the bookshelf when Jughead lands right in front of her, his chest barely brushing against her shoulders. He is holding the book in his hands between them and she reaches a hand out for it expectedly, fingers skimming the leather-bound cover. Jughead pulls the novel out of her reach, his face unreadable. 

Veronica looks up at him incredulously, tapping a finger against his shoulder. 

“Kindly pass me my book, Forsythe.” 

He doesn’t even shift, gaze flitting over to her face. There is a dark undercurrent to his general amusement. 

“Come now, be polite.” 

Veronica’s lips narrow into a thin line and she tilts up her jaw even more, her stare travelling across his face and halting at the small bruise around his jaw. 

“ _Hand it over_.” 

“No.” 

“ _Give_ me the b — ”

“ _No._ ” 

Her dainty fingers slam into his chest. 

“Give me the book or so, help me God, I will paint the entirety of your face black and blue.” 

Jughead recoils at her statement but doesn’t retreat. He doesn’t even push her away. Instead, his shaky hand covers hers as he taunts: 

“More violence? Is that really what you want?” 

Veronica stops in her tracks, shaken. Her hand is still caught against his chest and she can hear the wild, wavering sound of his heart.

“I…” 

But she never gets to say the next words aloud as Jughead suddenly takes a step forward, a step that sends his body flush against hers, his untamed hair brushing her forehead just before he tilts up her chin and kisses her, the book landing on the ground with a thud. 

Veronica startles for a second, not responding before her whole body yields in his arms and she rushes forward, burying her fingers in his hair as she fervently kisses him back. Somewhere in her mind, a staccato of alarm bells has gone off but she doesn’t listen. 

Instead, Veronica drags him towards her, and Jughead hoists her up, pushing her more firmly against the shelves, making her groan impatiently as she wrestles with his suit jacket. 

“Be quiet, someone could hear us,” he mutters, his hand flying out to her throat and pressing down ever so gently. 

She looks up at him breathlessly, eyes narrowed into slits. 

“My god, take off these stupid glasses,” she whimpers, reaching a hand up to Jughead’s face and pulling them off. He yelps. 

“Are you mad?” 

He grabs his spectacles from Veronica, carefully placing them on the shelf  behind them before he kisses her again, his teeth nipping her bottom lip as one of his hands treads over to the back of her dress, playing with the zipper. He pulls it downwards, sliding the sleeves off her shoulders but Veronica stops him, rising her fingers to his wrist and squeezing. 

“Take off the dress,” Jughead murmurs in protest.

She shakes her head, grasping for his belt and toying with the buckle. Her hand glides over the front of his trousers. He is already hard. 

“Oh no, you don’t deserve to see me naked.” 

He grunts, damning her and all of this to hell, but her little comment does nothing to snuff out his vehement desire to see her writhing underneath him, something so uncharacteristic of him. 

Their lips meet once more, more ravenously this time and he catches her hand, moving it away from his pants. He practically tears at her dress and undergarments, trying to free her for himself. 

Veronica curses as his fingers finally make contact with her, gliding up her bare things until he is just there, _right there_ , and she bites his shoulder to muffle her gasps as his fingers slip inside her.

“Not… not… right now,” she trembles.

His fingers stop moving and he looks up at her, face clouded over in astonishment. 

“There… there is no time for that… I… I… need you. Please.” 

Jughead’s gaze darkens visibly and he nods. Veronica pulls him closer, ever so closer, her sharp nails digging into his back and not ten seconds later, he’s inside her. 

She moans in complete abandon as he starts moving, her eyelids fluttering shut. Jughead leaves kisses all over her body: his teeth scrape against her collarbone, her jawline, his hand roughly cups her left breast under her dress but she barely notices, so lost in the feeling of him inside her. 

When he finally comes, he kisses her once more, greedily, sloppily, holding her in place as she comes down from her own high. 

They stay in each other’s embrace for a fleeting moment before the reality of the situation dawns on them. Jughead avoids her gaze as Veronica slowly disengages herself from him, smoothing down her dress and wiping the remnants of her lipstick away with the back of her hand. He zips up his trousers and grabs his glasses from the bookshelf, putting them on. They are still not looking at each other when Veronica bends down to pick up the _Anna Karenina_ from the ground with shaky hands. 

She utters his name and he turns towards her, cheeks red and his head bowed in shame. 

“This…,”she says, and her voice is quivering just as much as the rest of her. “We cannot ever repeat it.” 

And she walks away from him, after turning Jughead’s serene, untroubled life upside down, leaving him standing in the rubble. 

 

 

 

 

_A half a day or three later, who can tell?_

 

 

Jughead tries to shake her presence, tries with a vengeance, he really does, but it’s no use. It’s wrong, he tells himself. You are _engaged_. Yes, he remembers Betty, even if he hasn’t spared his fiancée a second thought after she’d left the manor, but now he remembers. And Jughead loves her, he _does_. Does he?

So, he makes a conscious decision to stay away from Veronica. He tells himself that there is perhaps no need to tell Betty anything. He has learned from his mistakes, the one all-consuming mistake, which is never going to happen again, Jughead’s not going to let it.

Of course, in the end, there are some complications. 

A few days later, Jughead is taking a casual stroll in the manor’s back garden when Veronica approaches him, heaps of hydrangeas and dahlias in her hands. She is  dressed in her usual black dress ensemble, once again entirely inappropriate and looking positively lethal. 

“Are you planning on telling Betty about what happened?” are the first words out of her mouth. She doesn’t even bother saying hello. 

“Would you please keep your voice down, miss Lodge?” he hisses at her. Lady Mary is walking around nearby, giving orders to the gardener and even though Jughead doesn’t think that her aunt is paying close attention to them, Veronica’s lack of propriety irritates him beyond belief. 

“I beg your pardon? May I remind you that you were the one who…” 

Jughead lets out a strangled noise and catches her by the hand, motioning to her aunt who has still not noticed anything out of the ordinary, thank god. Veronica’s mouth drops open in quiet horror and she quickly pulls her wrist free. Some of the flowers in her grasp fall free to the ground and she leans closer to him, whispering:

“Walk me back to the house.” 

“Veronica,” he mutters, a sliver of self-preservation climbing up his spine,  “ _no._ ” 

“ _Please, Jughead._ ” 

There is such an urgency behind her voice that Jughead can’t help but comply. So, he takes some of the flowers off her hands and walks her back towards the house, making the whole affair look as calm and collected as possible. Veronica glances at Lady Mary over her shoulder and waits as they are both inside the house, with his aunt safely out of earshot, before repeating her earlier question. 

“Well then, are you going to tell Elizabeth?” 

“Do you think I should?” he asks earnestly. Veronica almost loses her footing, more hydrangeas spilling from her hands and falling to the marble parquet beneath her feet. 

“I sincerely hope you’re not being serious.” 

“I thought it was better not say anything but don’t they say that honesty is usually the best policy?” 

Veronica drops the remaining flowers on the lounge table with an inelegant shuffle and spins to face him. 

“Jughead, “ she says, her voice full of dread. “Please, you…you can never tell her.” 

Jughead’s gaze narrows. In the short span of the afternoon, Veronica has pleaded with him not only once or twice. This is new. 

“Veronica, I was joking… I won’t,” he says. “I won’t tell her a thing. I promise.” 

She pauses, lips pursed together. 

“You promise?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you swear on it?” 

“Yes.” 

She regards him for a beat, her gaze carefully guarded and detached before asking the more important question: 

“Can I trust you, Jughead?” 

“ _Yes, Veronica._ ” 

She looks up at him and something chips away at her ice-woman facade as Veronica takes a step closer to him. 

“Thank you,” she breathes out, her body visibly going lax and before Jughead knows what’s happening, she is in his arms again. Veronica’s hands are wound tightly around his neck and Jughead knows that this too is inappropriate, that this too is wrong but he can’t stop himself. 

It happens as something completely out of their control. His arm snakes it way up to her perfectly coiffed hair, pulling her closer and this time, she doesn’t even hesitate. (He blames himself for giving in to her before Veronica even kisses him.) Their lips meet once more with fervour but there is an underlying fragility behind her kisses, even in the way she grips his shoulders or tears at his shirt. It is almost sweet. As Veronica’s mouth bites at the same faint mark on his jaw that she herself left there just over a week ago, Jughead thinks that it’s dangerous how much he craves her freedom. 

But just like that, the kiss is over. She disengages herself quickly and yet her hands are still on his chest, holding him in place. 

“I shouldn’t have…” 

“It is perfectly alright,” he replies quickly before she has the time to let go of him and Veronica actually snorts through the tears that are quickly glazing her eyes. 

“It is not, though, is it?” she whispers quietly and lets go of him completely. She takes a few quick steps and clutches the table’s edge. 

“You are getting married,” she says, tone almost cold again. 

Jughead runs a hand through his hair, looking at her with a pained expression. 

“Maybe I wo…” 

“Do not utter these words,” Veronica silences him. “They don’t mean anything.” 

She sounds almost disappointed now, as if she’d expected him to say that. The well-rehearsed lines of rogue men of her past. 

“Veronica,” he argues. “I can’t marry Betty when I’m…” 

“Don’t!”

If she’d remained somewhat put-together before, Veronica recoils back in shock now, words cutting through his like ice breaking. She is trembling. 

Jughead regards her with an astonished stare. 

“Veronica?” 

“You… you are not… God, how can you say such stupid things?” 

He steps closer to her, clasping her shaking hands in his. 

“I am not saying anything,” he tells her almost ardently. “The only thing I am perhaps saying is that I… that I have rarely spared Betty another thought since she left… Maybe even before.” 

“As heart-warming as that is, I am not a distraction from your second-rate morals,” Veronica snaps, tone scathing. 

Jughead lets out a quiet laugh and tilts up her chin, his anxious stare flitting over her face. There is no hesitation in his eyes as he leans closer, whispering, words burning through her skin: 

“I can always break off my engagement.” 

Veronica shakes her head. 

“I… I want no part of that… or any of your other melodrama.” She attempts to scoff.  “I’d rather we continue in secret than become her replacement.” 

Jughead lets go of her shoulders and looks at her in bewilderment. Veronica stares back, defiant. 

It is the second most reckless thing she’s ever done. 

 

 

 

_All sins are attempts to fill voids._

_\- Simone Weil_

 

 

 

_The unexpected virtue of ignorance_  

Still in Haynes Park, Bedfordshire 

 

 

The next two weeks are spent in blissful ignorance. Infidelity has become her friend again and like an old friend, Veronica welcomes her with open arms. Because it is not just lust or idleness or the ugly clash between their personalities that has driven her to Jughead, it is also perhaps the nature of summer. It is the first week of August and the temperature is somewhere between thirty-two and thirty-three degrees, the warmest summer week ever recorded in Britain’s history. The world is catching fire and Veronica is glad to burn along with it. 

Her and Jughead spend luscious evenings by the lake, skinny dipping. They lose themselves behind the shadowy hedges in the garden, Veronica cutting her foot when she accidentally steps into a rose bush, or the hidden alcoves in the library.  Hell, he even sneaks her into a secret London art exhibit once and they both get shown around an unnamed flat in Chelsea where the second floor is filled with lesser-known paintings by Monet. 

On another day, they climb up to the attic, well past midnight, smoking cigarettes after everyone’s gone to bed, and Veronica tells Jughead about her childhood in London and turbulent later years in Chicago. She learns about his maladjusted mother and a father who was never really there and died of lung cancer at just thirty-seven. Because it is so cold, Veronica curls up under his great grandmother’s dusty old quilt after sex, laying her head on his chest as she quietly and apprehensively tells him about the real love of her life, Josie, a black school teacher from Ohio. Instead of being shocked, Jughead laughs, kisses her from head to toe and tells her that if he could have a shilling for every time someone had tried to kiss him at Eton, he’d be richer than the Vanderbilts and the Rockefellers put together right now. 

“Their skin colour, or sex, it doesn’t matter to me one bit. You’re all mine now, anyway,” he murmurs, and she buries her face in his neck. 

Jughead pulls her up to him and cradles her face, his wet mouth finding hers and his tongue is filthy, dirty against her own, his hand leaving marks as it moves down to play with her clit. And still, in the midst of this pleasure, of torment, of indulgence, of filth — there is reverence in his eyes as he grinds into her. A few tears escape from Veronica’s eyes as she comes from the feel of his fingers against her cunt. 

After all these years, finally — a salvation. 

It is her hazy brain, whispering lies in the afterglow. Because of course it all comes crashing down. 

 

 

 

_You have witchcraft in your lips._

_\- William Shakespeare_

 

 

_She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth._

_\- Victor Hugo_

 

 

  

 

_The next day_

_Still in Haynes Park, Bedfordshire_

_(perhaps for the last time)_

 

 

Elizabeth Cooper arrives at Haynes Park at two o’clock in the afternoon with her mother and father in tow. It looks like the past couple of weeks have been good  to her; she is a little more tanned, a little more cheerful and wearing a beautiful crepe dress of wonderful white. She practically looks like she’s expecting to hear wedding bells no later than Sunday. 

“Miss Elizabeth,” Penelope Blossom greets her. “How nice to see you.” Her calculating gaze turns to the girl’s parents and for a brief moment, there is actually a hint of a real smile in her face.

“Alice, Harold, it truly is a pleasure.” 

“Where is Jughead?” Betty asks excitedly. 

“Forsythe’s probably in the library,” Penelope replies. “Be a dear and have tea with me and your parents first, he will still be there in two hours.” 

“Oh, auntie, I am afraid I cannot do that,” Betty laughs, almost jumping up and down with glee. “I have to tell him the good news.” 

And she runs towards the house. 

“And what are those good news that Elizabeth mentioned?” Penelope asks. 

Alice smiles at the younger woman conspiratorially. 

“Our daughter finally convinced us that Forysthe is indeed the respectable young man that Betty believes him to be. Surely you cannot blame us for having doubts.” 

Penelope regards her coldly. 

“Oh, not at all, Alice. However, I am sure the two of them will make a _marvellous_ pair together.” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

Betty enters the house, missing a smoking Jellybean in the hallway who doesn’t bother to greet the blonde. She skips up the grande stairwell, her light dress floating in front of her so Betty almost slips, takes a left turn and finally halts in front of the library entrance, taking a deep breath and plastering on her best smile (the bright, warm and genuine one) before she very quietly opens the heavy oak door. 

“Juggie! My love, you cannot believe how mu — ” 

The words die on Betty’s lips as she takes in the view. A naked brunette woman is bent over on one of the library desks, and a dark-haired man has a hand squeezing her throat as he drives into her with abandon. The air is thick with moans and whimpers. It takes her a second to realise that these two people are Veronica and Jughead. Betty lets out a pained shriek.

“Jug- _Jughead?_ ” 

The two sinners startle up immediately and Veronica gasps in horror as her gaze lands on Betty. She hastily reaches for her discarded dress, attempting to pull it on and failing. 

“I came down with my parents to tell you that the wedding date has been confirmed for November,” Betty mumbles. 

Silence. 

“Gods… Betty… I am deeply ashamed and sorry, I…” Jughead attempts to say but the blonde doesn’t listen. She takes a shaky step back, her teary gaze focusing on Veronica and suddenly, the room freezes to ice. 

“You,” she churns out. “You nasty… vile… b-bitch. You just c- c-ouldn’t keep your dirty hands to yourself, could you?” 

Betty draws a shaky breath. 

“I assume it felt gratifying, did it not?” she continues, tears streaming down her face. “Begging your rich acquaintances f-for h-help and getting the prodigal family son as a b-b-onus. You despicable, little wh —" 

“Betty, that’s _enough_ ,” Jughead suddenly snaps, his gaze turning impossibly cold. “Miss Lod — Veronica didn not initiate anything.” 

The blonde hiccups. 

“I… I don’t believe you.” 

Veronica, who had been quiet until this moment, cuts in with a shaky voice: 

“I understand that you’re upset, Elizabeth, and rightfully so, but…” 

“I did not address you, you whore!” 

“Betty!” Jughead yells. 

“Excuse me? Can you repeat that, please?” 

Veronica stands up straight and her dress falls to the ground as she advances towards Elizabeth in all her naked glory. 

“You are a whore,” Betty repeats through her teeth with relish and spit falls on Veronica’s face.

“For the love of God, Betty, _stop_ ,” Jughead barks but Veronica is not shaken. 

“I did not seem to hear you, say that again — ” 

“You’re a whore, you’re a whore, you’re a wh —” 

A loud slap echoes in the room as Veronica’s palm makes contact with Betty’s face.  

Betty screeches, clasping onto her cheek and flying out of the room. Veronica stares at the door, stupefied for a second before a terrible, guttural, wretched sound leaves her body and she grumbles to the floor. 

“Veronica…” Jughead runs towards her crying form. “Veronica, are you alright?” 

He buries her in his arms but Veronica shakes him off quickly.

“It’s… it’s alright. I… I should not have provoked her,” she says, her voice quivering. “Lord knows what she’ll do now.” 

Jughead’s face pales in realisation. 

“That measly bitc — ” he grunts, standing up. Veronica grabs onto his tensed arm. 

“No… no… we cannot afford another scene. You have to go after her and try to mend things, the rest of the Coopers are here with her as well!” 

Jughead’s jaw becomes rigid but he nods. 

“You’re right,” he says. “This is positively catastroph —  I will nip this in the bud, whichever scene she’s plotting.” 

He starts rummaging around for his clothes, throwing them on with remarkable speed. Veronica rises up and starts dressing up as well. 

“Please be careful,” she warns him whilst Jughead’s fixing the buttons on his shirt. “Do not act rashly in any way.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Do not let her rattle you, either. I… I have a feeling that.…” 

Veronica trails off and Jughead looks at her, eyes impossible to read. His voice wavers when he speaks.

“I should have _never_ —

“You have to go, Jughead.” 

“R.. right. Do I look fine?” 

He has finished smoothing over his outfit and Veronica assesses him from head to toe in a critical manner. 

“Yes, you look alright.” He turns his back to her but she pulls him back almost immediately, her hands grabbing a hold of his shirt, fingers grazing bare skin.  His gaze flits to her lips and she feels a desire crawl up her spine. _They hadn’t finished what they started_. 

“It was…You missed two of the buttons, damn it,” she curses instead, quickly fixing his work, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of this little moment. Jughead just stares at her, perplexed. 

“Hurry,” she whispers, and he strides out of the door. Veronica buries her hands in her hair when he’s out of sight. She feels as though she’s just sent him out on a hopeless mission. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

But Jughead doesn’t even manage to locate Betty. She is not in her room nor in the garden and so he feels rightfully apprehensive when he goes downstairs to greet the rest of the Cooper clan, but she is not with her family, either. What is more, both Mr. and Mrs. Cooper are perfectly cordial with him, which certainly would not be the case if… if Betty had told… 

Eventually, Jughead walks back upstairs. He grabs a piece of paper from the hallway table, writes a quick note to Veronica and slides it under her door, making sure that no one sees him. Jughead knows she’s probably in her room but he doesn’t dare risk going inside. 

No, all he can do now, is wait. Like a sitting duck. 

 

 

 

_Oh, the night’s like a whirlwind…_

 

 

Veronica receives more than one letter that evening. After reading Jughead’s, she decides to stay in bed as a precaution, at least until dinner, maybe even longer. She knows that the fact that Betty’s nowhere to be seen does not necessarily signify anything surreptitious and yet, she feels apprehensive… on edge. 

At quarter past seven, there is a knock on the door. Veronica contemplates pretending to be asleep since she is quite certain that it’s Betty behind her door, Jughead wouldn’t call on her today. Rather, he would just slide another letter under the door. 

“Excuse me,” Jellybean’s clear voice seeps through the wall. “Ronnie, are you in there?” 

Veronica runs to the door immediately, opening it. 

“Jellybean,” she chitters in relief. “How nice to see you.” 

The younger girl holds out a letter and she reaches for it. 

“Betty wanted me to give this to you.” Veronica’s arm halts in mid-air and Jellybean’s brows knit together imperceptibly. 

“Betty sent me a letter?” 

Jellybean nods. 

“Yes. She sounded rather upset. Is… forgive me for prying but… is everything alright between the two of you?” 

Veronica considers making something up on the spot but Jellybean’s always been nice to her and it is quite unlikely that this charade will last much longer, anyhow. Fat chance. 

“I… I am not sure,” she says instead. 

“Well, as you know, I have never really cared for her,” Jellybean laughs. “And I am quite certain she is just irritated because you’ve been around my dear brother much more than her lately.” 

Veronica flinches and to her misfortune, her friend catches the little motion. She doesn’t expect Jellybean’s reaction, however. 

“Ronnie, darling,” she says breezily. “That pious bint has nothing on you.” 

Veronica’s frozen on the doorway but the other brunette only blushes and giggles, quickly covering her mouth. 

“Oh, I cannot believe I’ve just called her that. Apologies.” 

It must be said to her credit that as soon as Jellybean notices her girlfriend’s ashen face, she retreats somewhat. 

“Anyhow,” the younger Jones says hastily. “I will leave you to your letter now. Give her a big kiss from me, Ron. I’ll see you at dinner!” 

“Jellybean,” Veronica calls out after a few seconds. “You are a great friend.” 

The grin the other brunette flashes her, is nearly blinding. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

Veronica is too distressed to read the whole letter but certain passages catch her eye. _“if not for yourself,_ _think_ _about Jughead”, “I saw that unknown African woman’s portrait under your mattress”, “deviant miscreant”, “undeserving of the Pendleton family”, “possess no qualms about destroying your reputation once and for all”, “unless you leave now”, “shameless dyke”_.  

It is a histrionic piece, including various threats that are anything but thinly veiled and yet… it’s enough. It suddenly becomes very clear what she has to do. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

“You are leaving?” 

Veronica hastily turns around. She is standing in the Haynes Park driveway, bags in hand when she sees Jughead, striding towards her, a positively livid expression on his face.  

“What are you doing here?” she says, fidgeting on her feet. “I… I left you a letter.” 

“That letter?” he yells. “You are fortunate enough that I have insomnia or I would have never been able to stop you.” 

“My… my car is going to be here in fifteen,” she says weakly, tears welling up in her eyes. 

“Veronica,” he demands, rushing forward and grasping her hands in his. “Tell me you are not going anywhere, you can’t.” 

“Yes… Yes, I am.” Her voice is trembling as she looks up at his tense, looming figure. “It is what’s best… you… you cannot stop me.” 

“No. No, you cannot leave, Veronica, do you hear me?” 

He shakes her tiny form but she doesn’t budge. She raises a hand to his cheek and in spite of his anger, his rage, in spite of their cruel predicament, he closes his eyes for a second, welcoming the warmth. 

“I… I am so sorry,” she whispers. “If I could make all of this disappear, I would. But I… I cannot. It is all too much” 

“Veronica…” 

“You know… we are sinners, you and I. And sinners are not meant to get married and have children and… live happy lives together.” 

“What if we moved away?” he objects, grasping the hand on his cheek. “To a different country? One where people are more accepting?” 

“Jughead,” Veronica sighs. “Society is much the same everywhere.”

She leans her head against his chest and there is such torment in her voice, an echo of another loss, that all arguments vanish from his mind. 

Her taxi approaches in a few minutes with a loud rumble, the tires screeching against the shingles on the ground. Jughead pulls her closer, despite Veronica’s protests and kisses her, kisses her so it’s painful, so it stings. But his hands tell a different story, his hands roam over her face in order to keep her place… so she never has to leave. 

The taxi halts and Veronica lets go of him with a soft gasp, her hands slowly slipping from his shoulders as pure, unadulterated fear mixes with the tears on her face.  What will happen to her? Where will she go? 

The taxi driver steps out of the car to help her with her luggage and Veronica looks up at Jughead once more, half-blind with tears. 

“Write to me,” she whispers, suddenly reaching for his hand, exposing her sudden weakness as she backs away towards the car. “Please write to me.” 

 

 

 

_July 1939_

_Arequipa, Peru_

 

 

Veronica is sipping coffee on the balcony of her attic flat in Calle Deán Valdivia, not far from the Arequipa city centre. She enjoys the buzzing sounds of afternoon around her as it is mid-June and people are finally out on the streets again, enjoying the somewhat cooler weather. 

She gets up and looks down to the street, putting down Leo Tolstoy’s _War and Peace._ God _,_ she must be reading that one for the fifth time by now _._ It is odd but Veronica is so out of touch with reality these days that she does not even bother ordering newspapers or books (not that there is easy access to them) and sometimes she thinks she prefers this life to what was before. Even if it is somewhat dull, there is still peace… Yes, Veronica knows that a war might break out in Europe any minute now but the situation in Peru has calmed down since the mid-thirties and truthfully, she does not much bother with politics. 

Some letters still reach Veronica’s Arequipa residence from time to time. It had  already been late 1937 when she had finally settled down in Peru. Veronica’s original plan was to travel to Spain but the situation had been far too dire there two years ago, it still is. Sometimes, when Veronica walks the busy Arequipa streets, she imagines that the different dialect echoes the warm, welcoming voices of Valencia, his father’s hometown. God, she wishes she could go back to somewhere, anywhere that is home, to make ties with her past. But alas, Veronica cannot. It is best not to think about it too much. 

Anyhow, in late 1937, her conscience had come knocking, and on a whim, Veronica had written to Jellybean and Jughead, jotting down her address at the end of the letter. Jellybean had replied first, and a few weeks later Jughead had followed suit. So they are still in correspondence. 

Now, her idle days are filled with working at the local coffee factory as a typist or taking long walks in the Parque Duhamel and she truly cherishes these small distractions from her otherwise solitary life. 

Her letters to Jughead are always vague and distant, without exception, never mentioning how terribly she misses him. Instead, they talk about books and classical music or his travels or in Jughead’s case, the growing disquiet in Britain. He never declares his love for her, either, and it cuts Veronica like a knife every time that he doesn’t.  

Jughead’s last letter from a fortnight ago had read something like this: _Dear Veronica, How I wish these oafs in the parliament would gather their wits. The war with Germany truly looks as it is not far off and Chamberlain is making a mess of everything. Additionally, I would be glad to send you some new books from time to time, you cannot keep reading these depressing Russian classics forever._

_Sincerely,_

_Jughead._

Veronica comes back to her table, attempting to shake his disappointing letter from her mind and reaches for todays’s post instead. Nothing from Jughead, but there is a letter from Jellybean today. She reads the first few lines: ( _Dear Ronnie, the situation in Britain is truly disheartening, I miss you terribly…_ ) when an additional sheet falls out of the envelope. It is a newspaper clipping of The Times obituaries. Veronica’s heart skips a beat. She forces herself to read on. 

There, on black and white reads: **The wife of a North Kensington MP, Alice  Mary Cooper, 45 and their daughter Elizabeth Alice Cooper, 21 both tragically pass away from malaria while on a holiday in Athens, Greece.**

The newspaper drops from Veronica’s hands. Betty is dead. The impossible has become true. (Now, what is she supposed to do.) 

 

 

___ 

 

 

For the next few weeks, Veronica feels as if she’s on tenterhooks. She is ashamed but there is only one burning question in her mind: now that Betty’s dead, can she return to England? The British embassy advise her against it: the outbreak of war is more than probable right now — it is a matter of days, rather than months. 

Jughead sends her two more letters, dated after Betty’d death but none of them mention the blonde in any way. Jellybean, however, urges her to come home and Veronica’s heart grows cold. What if there is no place for her in Britain anymore? What if Jughead has finally left her behind? He probably only writes to her because he feels guilty. After all, he has never mentioned that he loves her, not once. Certainly not in the letters. Oh, how Veronica now wishes she could have only stayed with Josie all those years ago, if only she had been spared some sort of heartbreak. 

Still, despite her futile efforts, it is agony to live with a broken heart, least of all two. Which is why, on the twenty-first of August, Veronica finally takes the leap, come what may. 

 

 

_The journey back_

 

 

The voyage back to London is brutal. Veronica has to rent a car to get back to Lima, driving on the highways and serpentines and rainforest paths for four days before she reaches the capital and stays in a crummy hostel for two nights, waiting for another ocean liner to set off towards New York. Then, another six days later, Veronica arrives in New York, finally stepping on the SS Manhattan, the magical commodity that will deliver her to the Port of London. It is on the ship that she slowly starts to lose hope since absolutely everyone, without exception, is talking about the impending war, and it is making her nervous. 

But then Veronica arrives in London, exhausted, beaten and thoroughly disheartened but she’s h o m e. Hailing a cab to take her to the Savoy, (which she absolutely cannot afford and yet, it is _so_ close to where _Jughead_ lives) Veronica thinks if London has always been this gloomy. The sallow-looking butler takes her upstairs, barely muttering the usual pleasantries, and Veronica falls asleep on the silk bed sheets, losing her state of consciousness right away. The next day, however, she is up at seven in the morning, impatiently knocking at the door of Jughead’s Strand flat, well before the usual afternoon tea.

It is Saturday, September 3rd, 1939. 

 

 

 

 

 

_But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin._

\- Aldous Huxley

 

 

 

Jughead opens the door for her himself and Veronica is about to fling her arms around his neck when she notices the desolate look on Jughead’s face. His hair is matted against his head and his eyes are bloodshot. There are white patches of dirt on his dark jacket. Veronica gasps in terror. 

“Jug- Jughead?” 

“Veronica?” His face is full of astonishment but his voice remains dull. “What on heavens are you doing here?” 

She feels a shiver crawl up her spine and has to collect herself for a moment before she can reply. 

“I heard about Betty… so I came back.” 

Veronica realises just how awful it sounds when she actually utters the words out loud. 

“Right,” he grunts, motioning towards his flat. “Well, do come in, by all means. 

Her heart drops in her chest as she steps over the threshold. Not even a hug or a kiss? 

They make their way to his living room and Veronica notices dirty dishes piling up everywhere and a bottle of  Courvoisier’s brandy perched on the table. There is mud on the Persian carpet. 

“Do you want a cup of tea?” Jughead asks, busying himself with the kettle, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. 

“Sur — Yes, please.” 

Veronica almost falls to her chair. They sit down on the rosewood sofa and he pushes a mug in front of her. It skids on the glass table, almost falling over before Veronica catches it, bringing the delicate piece of china to her lips. He still hasn’t said a word.

“Maybe I should go,” Veronica mutters after a while. 

Jughead finally looks down at her, a painful expression passing over his face before this foreign man finally scoffs, staring into his teacup: 

“Of course, run away again. What has it been, five seconds?” 

Something in Veronica breaks at that. This is not the welcome she expected. Veronica’s eyes throw daggers at him as she suddenly pushes herself up on her elbows and stands up, grabbing his hand from the table, the nails digging in, and shaking his arm. 

“You know damn well why I could not come back before, Forsythe,” she screams as her hands fly toward him, hitting his arms, his chest, his shoulders, anything she can reach, just to shake him out of this stoic insouciance. “If you no longer want to be with me, alright, _I expected that_ , but do not ever, _ever_ blame me for running away.” 

A second ago Veronica, shocked by his cold demeanour, would have been able to stand up and walk away, leave to lick her wounds in peace, with dignity, but no, she has travelled too far, crossed an entire ocean to be here with him today. And Jughead makes the decision for her, anyhow. Veronica keeps on hitting him with relish when Jughead is standing up as well, pushing her off him, his face fuming. 

“You know, you really are a piece of work,” he bellows, advancing on her, his face like thunder. “ _I_ do not want you? _I_ do not need you? Veronica, _I loved you_ , but   God damn it if you haven’t always had the worst timing.” 

He has her pressed her up against the wall now, his harsh breath fanning her face, her shoulders caught in his hands in a death grip. 

“What do you mean?” she whispers, shivering. 

“Are you really so conceited for me to believe your ignorance?” he snarls. 

She doesn’t say anything, not even attempting to move. 

“Well then, darling. Britain declared general mobilisation on Thursday.” He punches the wall behind her head. “I am going to war.” Something wet falls on her head. 

“I am going to war, Veronica,” he whispers. 

Veronica stands stock still. This is not how she expected this reunion to go. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

They sit around the kitchen table, still in silence but it is a different kind of silence — there is no resentment, just sorrow. Veronica’s mind is reeling from the news, she cannot believe that in her desire to get back to England, to him, she’d missed the outbreak of war. This could be the end of everything, the final punishment for their sins. But Veronica, being Veronica, refuses to give up, so she gets up, makes her way to Jughead’s chair, sits on his lap (he lets her without any protests), and caresses his face, kissing his forehead. 

“When are you leaving?” 

He trembles under her fingers. 

“Probably by the end of October, I doubt they will give me any more time.” 

Veronica had expected that reply but it still feels different coming from his mouth, much more cruel. 

“If I had only considered the possibility that you might be drafted soon… I… would have come back sooner, even if Betty hadn’t…” 

But Jughead shakes his head suddenly, silencing her with a look, his whole countenance suddenly determined. 

“No. I would have never let you do that… I was being very foolish.” 

“We could’ve had more time…” 

He looks up at her in earnest, hands sliding up to gather the locks that trail down from the back of her neck. 

“Veronica, we have time. Not much, but without you… we wouldn’t have had anything at all… I… I am so sorry for the way I acted when I saw you. It was me who should have gone to Peru for you.” 

She sniffs. 

“So… you want to resume where we left off?” Veronica tries to joke through the tears. “I thought you were supposed to be the clever one out of the two.” 

Jughead’s lips tilt up and behind the immense sadness, there is just a hint of familiar amusement. 

“Hmm, in all fairness, I did already apologise.” 

“Now that is mighty big of you,” Veronica laughs. “One measly apology for an entire trip across the ocean. I am officially flattered.” 

He smirks, burying his face in her neck. 

“You mad, mad woman…” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

He carries her to his bed, lays her on the cold sheets and whispers a hundred more apologies across her skin, leaving the words behind her kneecaps and collarbones, the dip of her waist and the subtle curve of the sole of her right foot, his feverish mouth leaving wet lines down her spine and tracing up to the crux of her thighs. 

In the end, Veronica is crying for deliverance, for release because he’s burning her, through her, and she wants to touch him, feel his cold skin under her fingers. Sometime later, Jughead finally lets her, the arms that had been pinning her down, letting her loose and she slides on top of him, wrapping her legs around him. 

“I love you,” he murmurs against her breast when she pulls him up with her, guiding him inside her and groaning at the brief sting when he enters her. “God, I have waited too long to say that.” 

“I love you too,” she manages to get out and after, there is just immense warmth and the slap of their flesh as he fucks into her and his mouth on hers and the sweat gathering between her shoulder blades as she finally comes for the third time. Jughead cradles her body in his arms, so carefully, and lays her down on the foot of the bed. He slips inside her one last time before collapsing right next to her, and on that dark September night, troubled by so many things, they are the two happiest people in London, if not the world. 

 

 

 

 

 

_The fragility of all that is human_

_Snapshots from September 1939 - May 1940_

 

 

 

_September_

 

 

Happiness is a strange and fleeting thing. Veronica’s mood has never again been so malleable as it is during the autumn of 1939, before or since. The first few weeks are spent in elation. There is almost no hint of war on the streets of London except the occasional yells of the newspaper boys, and the city is still bustling with vivacity and splendour. It is very different from boring old Bedfordshire, which makes it all the more intriguing. Jughead takes her to dine out at the Quo Vadis in West End, and they often go to eat dinner at the Ritz or somewhere in the Covent Garden. She moves into his flat and they make love until the early hours of the morning, which is when Jughead downs three cups of coffee and Veronica rolls her eyes at him from bed as he heads to the War Ministry to try and re-negotiate his mobilisation papers and she crawls back into bed in blissful ignorance, sleeping until noon before a quick walk to the heart of Mayfair and a late lunch at Claridge’s. Which is when Jughead gets back home and they start the whole cycle all over again. 

 

 

_October_

 

 

When his official mobilisation letter arrives, and it becomes clear that there is no escape, everything changes. (When Jughead’s at home, Veronica often sneaks to the bathroom to cry and there is an increasing number of topics they dare not touch upon.) 

Jughead’s been allocated to the 5th Infantry division, to report for training on October 10th near Richmond, and their frantic efforts to take the last of what life has to offer intensify. Veronica knows what the fifth division signifies for him, war in France, and yet, they both somehow drown out the white noise. The very same night of the announcement, he takes her to see _Women_ with Rosalind Russell at the cinema and they walk around the streets of London after the film, hand in hand, both of them oddly quiet and clutching onto each other in the cold, early October wind, neither Jughead nor Veronica saying what the other is thinking. 

The day before the inevitable, they stay up all night, drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes in his living room, drunkenly damning the whole war effort to hell and beyond; before they eventually pass out on his couch, curled up together like two children under an old oak tree, lost in the storm. 

 

 

 

_10\. October 1939_

 

“I love you,” he whispers as his train pulls up to the station. “When the war is over…” 

“Ssshhh, darling…” Veronica presses her cold fingers against his chapped lips. “It is bad luck to say that.” 

 

 

 

_Letters from France_

 

 

 

_28\. 11. 1939_

_Dear Veronica,_

_I love you. Richmond truly is the dullest place on Earth. At this rate, I’d much rather be in France already._

_Yours truly,_

_Jughead._

 

 

_08\. 12. 1939_

_Dear Veronica,_

_I love you. What is more, aunt Penelope, the old hag, was right and I do have to be careful for what I wish for: my regiment is being transferred overseas in a short while. I am not allowed to mention the exact location, God forbid the Germans read these letters, (even though I am plenty sure that the Nazis would not bother) but you might not hear from me for a while now._

_Regardless, you are always in my thoughts and I hope I also figure in some of yours._

_Yours truly,_

_Jughead._

 

 

_23\. 02. 1939_

_Dear Veronica,_

_I love you. You cannot imagine how splendid it was, being able to finally see your handwriting in front of my eyes. Not to be awfully sentimental but I could just picture you reading the words out to me. People are dying like flies over here and the thought of you keeps me sane — I can’t be denied these small remaining pleasures in life. I am still not allowed to tell you where we are but I think that you are more than sharp enough to guess, if just by the way I described my war comrades stuffing Camembert in their faces in my last letter._

_I hope you are surviving the work at the hospital (or rather, the hospital is surviving you)._

_Yours truly,_

_Jughead._

 

 

_15\. 03. 1939_

_Dear Veronica,_

_I love you. I hope Jellybean’s treating you nicely. I still cannot quite believe that she’s stayed over at our apartment for almost a fortnight, my love, she must be really concerned about you. I do not wish to add to your worries, my darling, but I also had a near-miss this morning. As we were nearing a certain town, the rifle of one of our own accidentally went off and almost scalped me. You were right, I really ought to be more careful out here._

_Yours truly,_

_Jughead._

 

 

_20\. 05. 1939_

_Dear Veronica,_

_I love you_ _. Things are exceptionally poor around here, I am not going to lie. We are closed off from all sides. It is only now dawning on me that I may never see you again. I used to sometimes think about that night in October just before I left, when we didn’t make love, hell, we were both too inebriated to even attempt to. It did not bother me so much then, after that sublime month we spent together. (Thank you for that.) Yet, when I saw you at the Savoy this April, wearing that ungodly green dress, I knew right then and there that I could not have died without seeing you one last time, without making love to you one last time. It still remains unacceptable that the high command only allowed me home once._

_This war has turned me into a misty-eyed old fool but if this is the last time you ever hear from me, Veronica, I want you to know: despite everything, I am so glad we crossed paths on that faithful summer of ’37._

_I was hesitant to ask but please pray for me._

_Yours always,_

_Jughead._

 

 

_(In the last fleeting moments of Jughead’s life, Veronica surfaces in his memory as a shadow in emerald green, laughing and twirling around in his arms at the Savoy ballroom. Then the image morphs and the silky, poison green fabric is pooling at her feet as she steps out of it and pulls him down to the bed, parting her legs for him as they find solace in one another for a brief, stolen moment in time.)_

 

 

 

 

_The Miracle of Dunkirk_

_2\. June 1940 (Strand, London)_

 

 

Veronica has been staying at Jughead’s flat, half losing her mind. It is the worst part, not knowing. Even though Jellybean is not Catholic, Veronica has been dragging her to the Church of Westminster, hoping that the lord will listen to their collective prayers if it is more than just her own sinful voice asking for favours. The beginning of June has been uncharacteristically warm and the sweltering air makes Veronica all the more anxious. The whole city feels like a Turkish bath if someone had popped a lid on it. 

She cannot breathe in the streets or at home or at her job in the hospital. On the fifth day of June, one day after the Dunkirk evacuation ended, Sister Margaret tells her to go home and get some rest. 

“You are no use to the wounded this way, Miss Lodge.” 

Veronica opens her mouth to argue; after all, they have so much to do, so many soldiers to help, (and she might even hear something about Jughead during one of her shifts); but she is unable to get the words out. It suddenly feels like there is an iron fist closing around her trachea and the floor disappears underneath her feet. Veronica collapses to the ground. 

 

 

___ 

 

 

Jughead doesn’t know how but he makes it out. On May 27th, a German soldier catches him in the left arm, just below the elbow. The bullet goes right through his limb and it is a miracle that he survives the blood loss. He is in and out of consciousness for the next couple of days, subdued by the alcohol in the end. The next thing Jughead actually remembers is his comrade in arms, Alfred something, dragging him towards the small ship-boat, yelling something about Dover and freedom and evacuation. Jughead’s heart does a strange little staccato in his chest but his body is too tired to hope. 

Nonetheless, somebody called Henry helps him on the boat. 

 

___ 

 

 

Veronica’s been glued to the bed for the last couple of days, Sister Margaret’s orders, even though she would much rather be at the hospital. It has been over three days now since the Dunkirk evacuation ended and there are still no news. She is quietly preparing for the worst when the doorbell rings. 

“Ronniiieeeeeeee,” Jellybean shouts. Veronica can hear her skipping up the stairs and her heart leaps in her chest. 

Jellybean halts in front of her: tears in her eyes. There is a torn-up letter in her  friend’s hands. Veronica looks at her, her very own almost identical copy of Jughead, down to the shape of her nose, and feels blood rushing to her ears. 

“He’s alive,” Jellybean cries out. “He is alive! He is alive!” 

Veronica jumps up from the bed, hurrying towards Jellybean and ripping the letter out of her grasp. There are just two lines: 

 

_Dear Veronica,_

_I am alive and in Dover. I love you._

_I will be in London by next week._

_Jughead._

 

She lets out a sob, tears falling onto the single sheet of paper and the next second, Veronica’s in Jellybean’s arms, both of them crying uncontrollably out of sheer relief. 

 

 

_12\. June 1940_

_King’s Cross Station_

 

 

Veronica is waiting for him at the King’s Cross station. She had expected Jellybean to come with her but the other brunette had shaken her head. 

“You lovebirds need to be alone today. I will see my brother soon enough.” 

So Veronica puts on her most beautiful carmine red dress, hiding it underneath her more modest mink fur coat and goes to the station by herself. 

Fate is good to her nerves today because she doesn’t even have to wait ten minutes before Jughead’s train is already pulling up to the station. Suddenly, the mass of people, all waiting for their returning loved ones, advances towards the vehicle and she cranes her neck in frustration, attempting to make out a familiar face to no avail. 

“Veronica,” someone suddenly rasps next to her. She whirls around on the spot, registering Jughead’s ashen, slightly dirty face and matted, greasy hair and falls into his arms, almost knocking him to the ground. 

“Jughead” she cries out, kissing every part of his face that she can reach. “You are home.” 

He winces from pain. 

“Easy, easy…” 

Veronica lets go of him briefly, her gaze moving from his face to his left arm. It hangs limply by his side. 

“Oh, God,” she whispers, covering her mouth with her hand. “Is that…?” 

He laughs. 

“It is not as terrible as it looks. It was a small-calibre weapon and did not go through anything vital. The doctor says I might have minor lasting muscle damage but look now…” 

He cups her cheek with his right hand. 

“At least I am at home in one piece, right?” 

Veronica snorts through the tears, looking into his gaunt face where the cheekbones are more prominent than ever. 

“It is an awfully small piece.” 

Jughead’s lips quirk up at the corners. 

“Strangely enough, I could also swear this uniform was bigger when I left.” 

Veronica would hit him in the shoulder if Jughead didn’t look so fragile, and if she wasn’t so happy too see him, of course. 

Her stare flickers to his damaged arm again. 

“Is this really going to be alright? You are not lying to me?” 

“Veronica,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss her once more, his lips pressing softly against hers. “From now on, everything’s going to be alright.” 

She smiles through the kiss and they stand there, in each other’s arms, until Veronica wrinkles her nose and suggests that a nice, warm bath would be best before they continue. 

Jughead lets out a loud, booming laugh, pulling her closer again with his one good arm. 

“God, I love you.” 

 

 

_Two weeks later_

_Strand, London_

 

 

Jughead’s right arm snakes around her bare waist and he buries his face in her hair. Veronica wriggles, letting out an inadvertent squeak. She is still not used to waking up in bed next to him every day. And she knows that it won’t always be like this, that eventually things will get hard and Jughead will have to face the scars of war,  Veronica has already caught him murmuring in his sleep once or twice, but right now, in this moment, having him back truly feels nothing short of heavenly deliverance. They have both been rescued. 

“We should go dancing today,” he murmurs in her ear. 

“Dancing?” Veronica asks in an incredulous voice. “But you loathe dancing! I would much rather we stayed at home and argued about literature.” 

(And what about your arm, she thinks, but doesn’t mention it.) 

“That one night in April might have changed my mind,” Jughead argues. “Besides, we have yet to properly celebrate my return.” 

“Well,” she says, turning towards him with a smirk. “If you insist…” 

 

 

___ 

 

 

She slips on the dark emerald satin dress, the one that Jughead adored so much  back in April and he looks at her in astonishment as she steps out into the hallway. 

“Shall I go and call us a taxi?” he whispers. 

Veronica shakes her head. 

“No. It is only six o’clock and I’d much rather we walk.”

 

 

___ 

 

 

They end up walking all the way down to Piccadilly, to the The Royal Academy of Arts, hand in hand. The evening air is breezy and slightly misty. It all seems so strange because despite the fact that there is a war going on, London is painted in light and laughter and the setting sun is glittering on the top of their heads. It truly seems as if nothing terrible has ever happened in this world, the past is vanished, wiped away, just for tonight. 

Jughead notices a lovely little flower shop near Old Bond Street and halts, smiling down at her. 

“Pardon me for a moment.” 

He goes inside the shop and Veronica looks around, her gaze sliding over to the charming jewellery boutique just across the road. She crosses the street, admiring the beautiful necklaces on display. The one with the ruby pendant is sure to cost a fortune but maybe…

Suddenly, she hears Jughead call out something from a few metres behind her. Veronica turns, catching his stare from across the road and smirks playfully. The white noise drowns out his next words. The last thing she sees is the expression on Jughead’s face as his neck tilts to the right imperceptibly: fear. Everything else comes back much later, and in fragments: the screech of tires on the asphalt, the screams of passersby, Jughead’s body falling to the side like a rag doll, a black London taxi speeding away, more screams, a loud thump as his body makes contact with the vehicle. 

Much later, during one of the London air raids, an additional eyewitness tells her that Veronica was the first one on the scene. That she let out a feral, almost inhuman scream and rushed forward: nearly being run over by another car. Veronica doesn’t remember that. 

She comes back to herself as she’s scratching her knees on the asphalt, dropping down next to Jughead’s body and howling out his name. She slaps his cheeks but he doesn’t move. A moment later, she notices blood trickling down from the side of his head, thick little droplets falling to her hands and his hollow, blue eyes, looking out to the sky. Empty. Lifeless. Veronica squeezes her own eyes shut, not wanting to see, shaking herself violently. 

She cradles his face in her arms, shielding him with her own body. 

“Jughead, please wake up,” she chants, holding onto him for dear life. “Come back to me, please come back, come back, come back, come back. _Come back_.” 

 

 

 

_Come back!_

_Even as a shadow._

_Even as a dream._

\- Euripides 

 

 

 

_September 1955_

_Bedfordshire, England_

 

Polly Cooper recognises the figure at the grave almost immediately. The woman’s face looks almost bloodless and there are intricate webs of wrinkles lining her narrow mouth and the corners of her eyes. Her eyebrows are two thin, unappealing lines of black. Still, despite the fact there are only subtle, hidden whispers alluding to her once-famous beauty, Veronica Lodge looks just as striking as she did almost twenty years ago when Polly first met her. Polly vaguely remembers that Veronica must be on her fourth marriage by now. And living in the States again. 

Curiosity edging her on, she picks up the empty candle from her mother’s grave and steps closer. 

“Veronica Lodge?” the blonde calls out. “How do you? I suppose you do not remember me but we met…” 

Veronica rises her gaze from the tombstone and there is a brief flicker of something in her lifeless eyes, but it is so short-lived that Polly doesn’t manage to put a finger on it. 

“Polly Cooper,” she replies, voice entirely devoid of emotion. “I remember. Haynes Park, 1937, wasn’t it?” 

“Precisely.” 

The Lodge heiress doesn’t utter another word, so Polly assumes it be her duty to continue the conversation. 

“I come to visit the cemetery once in a while as well,” she says. “It is so peaceful and I always feel closer to Betty here.” 

Veronica’s face pales more than Polly thought possible, her complexion turning into a sickly chalk white. 

“B- Betty’s buried here as well?” 

The other woman nods, not realising her faux pas. 

“Yes, her grave is beside that maple tree over there.” 

Veronica murmurs something under her nose and Polly doesn’t think she heard her right. She thinks about it later, on her way home to her husband and the kids and decides that Veronica could not have possibly said what Polly thinks she said. 

“ _I know now, that to some,_ _sin is just a matter of words. And to them salvation is just words too. Yet, I was once free in the shackles of my vices._ ” 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I am so sorry for putting everyone who read the story through this! Also, I do apologise for not using trigger warnings (I tried to hint at dark themes in my tags but also not give anything away). Even though, this is marked as Explicit but I know that sometimes this doesn't help. 
> 
> I just wanted to write an old-timey very angsty Jeronica love story with lots of complications and I am not sure how this turned out but I would really appreciate if you could let me know what you thought! 
> 
> PS: For the life of me, I cannot remember who that end quote belongs to, sorry!


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